


and reality snarled with cover art

by Thruterryseyes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean-Centric, Emotional Baggage, Fire, Gen, Heavy Angst, I'm Going to Hell, Supernatural Art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 17:26:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10904058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thruterryseyes/pseuds/Thruterryseyes
Summary: a simple trip back home after a job turns into a nightmare realization to Dean. This is kind of an odd story. Fire trigger just so you know.





	and reality snarled with cover art

"What the hell is taking so long?" Dean demanded. He folded his arms to keep what little heat he possessed against his skin and leaned back against the wall.

For three days they had come and gone as they pleased from the sprawling white house while the Culbert's had 'vacationed', allowing Sam and Dean time to rid their home of a nasty poltergeist. Once the job was done, after calling their clients and telling them the house was clear, an army of maids had descended on the house and practically licked it clean, preparing it for the party that was scheduled that night, hence the need for speed and the paying gig.

Now, they were waiting on the back porch in the cold night air for their clients to pay up so they could go. Dean didn't like people with money to flaunt and even though the Culbert's had been desperate enough to allow the brothers the free run of their anti-Bellum style home for several days, now that the situation was resolved, Sam and Dean had been relegated to collecting their pay at the back door lest the invited guests see the scruffy pair and raise curious, well-arched brows.

"Just be patient, Dean," Sam said tiredly. He was cold and weary and dirty and just wanted to go. Dean had been snappish and more short-tempered than usual when he wasn't staring into space, tight lipped and brooding. Sam's patience, even understanding the reasons why, was about played out.

The clock was winding down, Dean was running out of time, and Sam was no closer to finding a way out of Dean's deal than he had been six months before. Dean had ceased getting on Sam's case about trying to stop the deal, but it hung over them like a giant black cloud, shadowing every second of their remaining days together. Sam felt like he was forever waiting for the other shoe to drop and the constant feeling of dread that was now closer to him than his shadow was wearing him steadily down.

"You okay?" Dean asked, shooting Sam a questioning look.

"I'm fine," Sam said with a sigh, rubbing his eyes. "I'm tired. I want a hot shower and a bed—" He broke off as the door opened and a young girl in her twenties, wearing a black dress and white apron held out an envelope and a small, covered paper plate.

"Mr. Culbert said this was for you," she said, holding out the envelope. Then she smiled and extended the plate, "I'm Amanda. This is from me."

"What's this?" Sam asked taking the envelope and passing it to Dean, then the plate she offered.

"Just a little treat. I'm sorry it isn't more." She smiled again and winked, closing the door.

Dean had retreated down the steps and was fanning the money in the envelope. "At least they didn't stiff us," he growled, stuffing the bills into his jacket. "What's that?" he added, spying the plate.

Sam shrugged, "The maid, Amanda, gave it to me." He pulled off the wrap and revealed half a dozen crackers covered with some dark substance he couldn't identify in the dim light.

Dean squinted at them. "What is that?" He took one and sniffed it, making a face. "Holy crap…" He watched in disbelief as Sam put one of the crackers in his mouth and rocked back in obvious delight.

"Oh, my God, it's caviar!"

"Fish eggs? Dude, gross!" Dean exclaimed in disgust, holding the cracker away from himself.

"Try it, Dean, you might be surprised. Haven't you ever had caviar?"

"No, the butler refused to serve it!" Dean snapped. "When in the hell have you?"

"Not very often; a few times with Jess and friends." He ate another cracker and chewed with such obvious pleasure  
Dean dubiously put his own cracker in his mouth and bit down. A horrible look crossed his face and he spit out the half-chewed mess.

"Argh!…Crap…God, that is rank! How can you eat that?" Short of wiping his tongue on his sleeve, and since it was his leather jacket that wasn't happening, he resorted to scraping his tongue on his teeth and spitting repeatedly, trying to get rid of the bizarre taste. He shuddered, wiping his mouth.

"I guess it's an acquired taste," Sam replied, amused at Dean's reaction. "More for me." He started walking down the sidewalk to the car, enjoying another caviar-topped cracker.

"Why would anyone want to acquire a taste for that?" Dean sputtered, opening the driver's side and sliding in.

Sam settled in next to him and shut the door, carefully balancing the plate. "I dunno. You can develop a taste for all kinds of stuff that might surprise you. Or at least get used to it if you're around it a lot. Sometimes you have to for a job or something, people you need to socialize with, you can learn to enjoy it."

"No way in hell would I ever have a taste for that…" He jerked his head at Sam's plate, at a loss for a word that would adequately express his disgust, settling for a gagging noise. He started the engine, putting the car in gear.

"Watch the road," Sam warned, "It's getting kinda icy."

"Thanks for the weather report," Dean replied, rolling his eyes. "And keep that stuff away from me." He added, pushing Sam's arm. He pulled onto the main road after waiting for a sleek Mercedes to ooze past him and slink down the drive toward the brightly lighted house. The driver gave Dean a dirty look as he passed, as though coming to close to the Impala might cause contamination. 

Dean growled in response and patted the Impala's dash comfortingly. "Don't mind them, honey, they're just jealous."

Next to him Sam snorted softly and shook his head, stuffing the last cracker in his mouth.

Dean ignored him and headed down the main road toward the end of the world that the Kozy Komfort Kabins inhabited. A working fireplace in each cabin, complimentary firewood provided was an amenity the brothers had quickly realized actually meant the rooms had no other source of heat, firewood apparently being cheaper than a gas bill.

The firewood was neatly stacked next to the office—all you had to do was go get it yourself and build and start the fire. It wasn't the worst place they had ever stayed and had a certain rustic charm if you didn't mind freezing your ass off or going back to the motel every couple of hours to stoke the fire.

If there was one thing the two men knew how to do, it was build a friggin' fire.

It had been lightly spitting snow all day and the ground and roads were frosted with it. Dean could feel the slight slide of the big car as they hit icy patches. It had apparently snowed more outside of town from the looks of it and the lesser amount of traffic had left the road in a more frozen state. He slowed considerably to take a long shallowly banked, blind curve, gently pumping the brakes.

Barely into the curve, he was blinded by headlights coming across the road, oddly, one on top of the other rather than side by side, his only real thought as he wrenched the wheel and hit the brakes, feeling the Impala swerve and make every effort to swap ends as he fought the spin, was what the hell? 

Next to him Sam yelled, bracing himself against the door and dash as the Impala slid sideways over the ice covered road and bumped over the edge into the shallow ditch at the side.

As they slid off the road in one direction, they both gaped at the tractor trailer sliding by on its side going past them, having apparently jackknifed on a too tight turn. The screaming of metal against the road surface blotted out every other sound as the rig went by, just missing the rear end of their car. The Impala jerked to a halt, just below road level, the tail lights of the trailer slipped from view as Dean and Sam scrambled out and struggled back up the slippery incline.

Dean and Sam both made it to the road at the same time, watching in horror as the truck plunged off the other side of the curve and sailed into the trees at the edge of the road some two hundred feet away with a horrendous crash. They began running along the edge of the road, through the crunchy frozen grass toward the crushed truck.

They had covered about half the distance when the cab exploded in a brilliant orange fireball, shooting flames and jagged debris in every direction.

The concussion knocked the brothers to the ground and sent a wave of heat over their prone bodies that melted the thin ice on the road's surface.

After a few seconds, ears ringing, Dean rose on his elbows and twisted to look at the truck. "Holy shit!" he gasped. "Are you alright?" he demanded of Sam, brushing bits of glass off of himself.

Sam shook his head violently, more glass pattering to the ground from his hair. "Yeah…yeah, I'm okay…what about the driver?" He pushed himself out of the sudden cold puddles he was lying in, wiping his hands on his jeans as he staggered to his feet.

"I dunno…" Dean began, he took a few steps toward the blazing vehicle, but stopped dead as a screaming figure, engulfed in flames from head to toe, arms outstretched, stumbled from the smoke and fire and staggered toward them.

"Oh my God!" Sam cried, horror freezing his blood. He ran forward as the figure fell to its knees, sizzling as the flames hit the wet road, drying it instantly. Dean ran after him, but the driver had collapsed so close to the burning truck the appalling heat made it impossible to get closer.

The driver fell forward onto the road, clawing at the blacktop, his screams dropping to hoarse noises of agony, his motions jerking and spastic, slowing now as he lay there.

"We've gotta do something!" Sam shouted over the crackle of flames. Admittedly at a loss at to what they could do.

Dean halted, eyes on the burning man lying in the road, seeing the flesh and clothing become a charred mass as the flames fed upon him.

Dean had a clear view of his face, skin peeled away, mouth open and moving slowly in a reflex scream. The hands twisted into blackened lumps. The man was already dead, his brain just hadn't absorbed the fact. Pumping the heart a little longer until all the nerves were burned to ash.

The smell of burnt flesh enveloped him.

Dean couldn't force his eyes away as the took in every detail of the incinerated body, hearing the cries of pain echoing in his head, watching in morbid fascination as the flesh continued to blister from the bones…

He didn't realize he was on his knees, didn't remember stretching out his hand to touch the blackened corpse, flames still dancing over it, feeling the heat…

Was this what he had to look forward to? Was this his eternity lying on the ground before him? A reflection of torment that, for him, would be never-ending?

There was a tiny pop and sizzle as an eyeball exploded in the heat and instantly shriveled in on itself.

"Dean!?"

Dean felt himself pulled backwards as Sam grabbed him. "Dean! What are you doing?" Sam shook him roughly. "Dean, snap out of it!"

Dean blinked, what? He felt the cold wetness of the pavement beneath his palms, soaking into the seat of his jeans. "What…?" He shook his head.

"He's dead, Dean. Call the cops and let's get outta here. There's nothing we can do."

Sam stood, wiping his hands on his legs, shivering in the freezing air. He held out a hand to Dean who was still sitting on the ground.

When Dean made no move to rise, still staring dazedly at the incinerated remains, smoking and hissing as sleet began to soak into it, Sam realized belatedly how stupid he was being. Going down on one knee, he gently took Dean's arm and pulled.

"C'mon, Dean. " He said softly, feeling Dean finally respond, "We should go. There's nothing we can do for him," He repeated.

Dean stumbled slightly as Sam got him to his feet. His shaking was worse than Sam's and had nothing to do with the icy air. Time was running out, there were no solutions in sight and reality had just stepped up to him and dared him to look it in the eye.

He was going to hell.


End file.
